


Please Stop Wearing Dresses (They Look Too Good On You)

by DelWrites



Category: Count Duckula
Genre: Crossdressing, M/M, Messy Feelings, oh god I wanna fuck my mortal enemy send help
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-25 17:21:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20915753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DelWrites/pseuds/DelWrites
Summary: Duckula likes wearing dresses. Goosewing has been haunted by this ever since the dinner party.





	Please Stop Wearing Dresses (They Look Too Good On You)

There's a fantasy that plagues Goosewing on sleepless nights.

He's dressed his best, and beside him, there's a beautiful girl- blonde curls and blue dress and eyes that beg him to tear it off her. They slip away from a pretentious dinner party, giggling at themselves, so naughty, so unrefined. Right in the backyard, she's so desperate, she kisses him and his world stops spinning.

They tilt their heads, tongues clashing feverishly, hands grappling at his clothes- pulling off his bowtie, his cloak, his vest. His right hand trembles as his slips it up her leg, hiking up that pretty blue number, she's so gorgeous in it that he can't help but want to take her in it.

He takes her wrists and pins them to the ground, and the noise that earns him is delicious. Goosewing nuzzles at her neck, preening the green feathers, drunk off the whole situation. He feels her legs wrapping around his hips, her pelvis thrusting upwards in a display of "oh god, just fuck me right now", and who the hell is he to deny such a lady?

It makes no sense to have anything for preparation, of course- it was a damned dinner party, he had no intention of getting lucky. But this was his fantasy, damnit all, and if he wanted to have the convenient lube in his pocket, he'd have it. He'd have a condom too, but again, this is his fantasy, and the pretty girl below him whines in his ear "come inside me", and wow, that's self indulgent. 

He slides a hand over her own cock, gripping it gently and stroking, and she lets out a noise like a symphony. He pours the lube generously over his fingers, nudging them gently against her, and he doesn't stop stroking her with his other hand as the first finger slides in. She wriggles, adorable and tense, until he whispers to "relax", and she gets heated again. 

He keeps going, slipping in more fingers, scissoring and slipping them in, out, in, out, searching for the perfect spots, until she's writhing and panting and she begs him for his cock in a voice so needy that her accent slips. He recognizes that voice. It doesn't stop him.

Once he nudges his length against her, he's cut off from asking if she's ready, by her saying "god please fuck me already", and that's all the reassurance he needs. Goosewing's hands grip her hips as he presses into her, and she's wet from preparation and warm and god, she's singing for him, those noises gutteral and torn right from the throat by his actions. He wants to play her like an instrument, he doesn't care who hears. He presses further in, and she's whining for more, more, until he's fully seated and she's moaning his name, "Otto, Otto", like it's a mantra.

He sets a gentle pace, at first. He wants to be a gentleman. He wants to give her time to adjust. She, on the other hand, practically claws at his shoulders, pulling him down to eye level, and she growls "fuck me harder", and his mind spins. His hips snap against her, his pace growing erratic and unpredictable, and he's desperate to please her, his cock slamming into that wet heat over, and over, and over. She's clawing at his back, and the pace of it all is so brutal it messes up her wig, revealing the black hair she truly has. Her voice had lost all pretense of a southern accent long ago. Those purple streaks could only belong to one person.

It only makes Goosewing fuck him harder.

Duckula is whining and writhing underneath him, his face flushed violet.

"O- Otto, oh fuck, I'm- keep going, please please please, you feel so good-" Like he's incapable of shutting up. The praise goes straight to Goosewing's dick. His grip on Duckula's hips is iron, and he's practically pulling them up to meet his every thrust, and Duckula loses all ability to articulate. He's gorgeous, he's still gorgeous, and the second he comes, Goosewing unloads inside of him, panting and groaning. 

He can't stop himself from kissing Duckula as they come down from the high.

And that is always the part that disgusts him most, when he opens his eyes and he's back in his bed at home. Not the fantasy itself, though it is truly shameful. It's the tenderness with which he wants to treat his greatest enemy afterwards. He wants to cuddle, through the aftermath, and preen his feathers, and hold his hand, with the fingers slipped between each other. If it was all just something carnal, he could maybe find an excuse. But it wasn't.

Goosewing sighed and moved to clean up his mess.


End file.
